


verses out of context

by stilinskitrash



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Reader-Insert, Religion Kink, Self-Insert, im a good christian girl i promise, that's all imma say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 14:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15974504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskitrash/pseuds/stilinskitrash
Summary: Cringing, your mouth soured. “Please, don’t call me father.”“Mother?” He’s messing with you; you can tell. The teasing is strangely fun, your lips itching to break into a smirk.( Matthew Murdock is the enigmatic stranger who comes to beg forgiveness every week at the church your adopted guardian runs, and you can't help but be intrigued by him. )





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i tried to make this as in character as possible but sorry if it's still a little ooc,,, this is my first time writing my sweet dumpster cinnamon roll matt and i just wanna do him justice ! if ur not into religious kinky talk etc etc this isn't for u lol  
> short first chap but others will be longer  
> ALSO SORRY IF THERES SOME TENSE MISTAKES I originally wrote this in present tense the new decided i hated it so changed it to past lmao I'm dumb

“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,”

 

The church was full, the congregation larger than it had been for the past few weeks. You suspected that it wasn't insignificant that there'd been a spike in gang violence and deaths in the area, and perhaps this was the real cause of the big turnout. Not some random mass conversion. You felt most comfortable sitting on one of the back pews, able to observe the church goers peacefully and freely, and hand out hymn books to the congregation.

 

There always was an interesting selection of people. Church was a safe place in your community to people for so many different reasons. Elderly men and women who lived alone often attended, as well as large families or single parents with young children, adults who felt lost and adults desperate to stay connected to the one link that still kept them close to their childhood and their parents.

 

Your adopted father was the pastor, and your most reliant guardian. Both of your biological parents had never really been in the picture, not since you were in your early teens anyway. You went to as many of his sermons as you could inbetween shifts at work, happy to support him and comforted by his words. It wasn't like Sunday school, and you weren't even sure you actually believed in a God. Agnostic, maybe. But some of the stories and parables from the Bible were messages you could easily translate into everyday life, and it made you smile to see Father Lantom believe in something as strongly as you wish you could.

 

When the service ended, you stayed behind to help clear the pews of discarded hymn books and trash. The last person to leave was always the same, distinguishable from the echoing of his walking cane against the cold, stone floor.

 

He always wore a suit, smart and clean looking, as if he constantly had somewhere important to be or some meeting to attend. But the bruises and cuts that often littered his face told another story. The black, circular rimmed and shaded out glasses he wore were also a peculiar choice, but they suited him, matching his air of charisma and mysticism. He was also unfairly attractive, and sometimes you felt incredibly guilty for being thankful he couldn't catch you blatantly staring.

 

He made his way everyday, after Father Lantom had finished speaking, to the confessional. You didn't mean to eavesdrop – you couldn't really help it. The church echoed every whisper and noise, and if you strained your ears well enough, you could sometimes make out the man’s voice as he conversed in hushed tones with your grandpa. He started attending regularly a few weeks back. How much could one man have to confess? How many sins could he be hiding?

 

“Bless me me, father, for I have sinned.”

 

“Hello, Matthew.” You heard the familiar, raspy voice of Father Lantom reply. Matthew. You’ve heard your grandpa use his name before, but it’s possible it’s just one he’s asked to be referred to as; an alias.

 

“I’ve hurt someone, father.”

 

Before you could overhear anymore, the double doors creaked open at the end of the church and two women entered, their heels clicking distractedly as they headed straight for the pews. It was too hard to focus your hearing on the confessional now, and with slight disappointment you returned to tidying up around the new visitors.

 

After ten more minutes, Matthew finally emerged from the booth alone. You were sitting on a small cushioned chair by the door, meaning to greet all newcomers as they came and went. His face is stoic, unreadable as he made his way towards you. Your legs crossed self consciously, fiddling with the hem of your skirt – that  _ maybe _ should be longer – and the silver cross hung around your neck. It suddenly felt like a weight pulling you down.

 

_ He can’t see you, dumbass _ . You felt a pang of guilt, for your own self absorption and disregard. But as he passed you, the rhythm of his cane ringing through your head, you could swear a smile tugged at each corner of his mouth.

 

Then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i could tell u this was beta'd or i could tell u the truth

It was strange that you didn't see him for at least a week after that. Your eyes scanned the crowds but never fell upon his token dark shades or suit. It wasn’t something you could just casually bring up to Father Lantom, so you waited without patience for him to return for another service. 

 

Mid week came around, and you heard the tap of the cane whilst lighting some candles at the front of the church. Except for Matthew and yourself, the whole place was empty, Father Lantom having left the church in your hands for a moment.

 

You were so busy watching him find a seat amongst the pews that your hand forgot it was holding something, and the lighter fell limply to the floor with a clatter that echoed.

 

“Shit,” You mumbled, pushing yourself up and tidying away the box of fairy lights.

 

“Language.” A voice called back, freezing you momentarily with shock. Turning slowly, you faced the smug smile playing on Matthew’s lips. He was facing straight ahead, towards the stained glass overlooking the seats. 

 

Heat rushed to your cheeks, embarrassment overcoming you.

 

“‘M sorry.” You muttered, dragging a nervous hand through your hair.

 

“Is Father Lantom here?” He asked, hands folded in his lap. He had fresh scrapes on his face, a cut scabbing above his eyebrow and a bruise blossoming over his cheekbone.

 

You stumbled for the words for a moment whilst Matthew sat patiently. “Yes, yeah. Well, no. He’s stepped out to do some errands. I’m watching the church.”

 

He nodded slowly, raising a brow. “And you are...?”

 

“His daughter. Kind of. Adopted,” you explained, coughing to clear your throat as you stepped closer to where he sat. “Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N. I help him out a lot with the church.”  _ He doesn’t really care _ , your mind scolded, but you’d always been one for oversharing.

 

A silence settled over you both as you blanked on what to say. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe you should’ve just minded your own business. 

 

You should have. Maybe. 

 

You didn’t.

 

“Would you like me to, uh – I can, you know… step into the confessional. If you’d like. If you need.” The words tumbled out over your lips before you could reconsider it.

 

Matthew’s mouth quirked upwards briefly, his head turning in the direction of your voice. “Sure.”

 

You began to panic almost instantly. You’d never operated inside a confessional before. Sure, you knew how it worked and what you  _ should _ say, but acting as a voice of guidance and god for the man you’d been non-discreetly staring at for weeks was not something you’d prepared for. Matthew got up and crossed to the confessional, knowing where it is, which he would from the hundreds of times he must have retreated into it.

 

You followed warily, sliding in through the door in the back to take a seat where Father Lantom usually sat. Matthew’s face was obscured by the ornately patterned metal grid separating your bodies, his side profile facing you. 

 

“Bless me, father,” he began, exactly as he always did, “for I have sinned.”

 

What were you supposed to prompt him with? What didn’t sound bizarre coming from the mouth of an untrained stranger? Lantom was a natural at this from years of practice and education, and you were all too aware of how bad an idea this was.

 

Matthew didn’t seem to take your silence as discouraging. “I’ve been wondering recently about at what point do you become the bad guy. At what point do you become so consumed that you turn into exactly what you’re supposed to be against? How different can you be from the bad guys, if you’re just using how they act against them? We’re all the bad guys in someone’s life, right?”

 

Stunned, you stared hard at your hands, taking in his words. You wracked your brain for a response whilst trying to comprehend what he meant by his words.

 

“I think,” you began, hoping your train of thought would take you  _ somewhere _ , “that the idea of bad guys and good guys is too linear. Similar to our concept of heaven and hell. Surely there’s an inbetween – a grey area – and most of us fall into that? “Good” and “bad” can be subjective, I might think Cheetos are good, you might think they’re bad.”  _ You sound stupid _ , you cursed silently, rambling on. “Everyone's a little grey. We all have good and bad in us, it’s about what side we give in to when we forget our strength. Like Jesus in the desert, being tempted by Lucifer.”  _ Nice, finish with a Bible anecdote. _

 

“But surely Cheetos and murder are different kinds of bad?”

 

You froze again. 

 

“Murder?”

 

“Hypothetically, father.”

 

Cringing, your mouth soured. “Please,  _ don’t _ call me father.”

 

“Mother?” He’s messing with you; you can tell. The teasing is strangely fun, your lips itching to break into a smirk.

 

“Oh, Christ, no.” You muttered, exhaling a breathy sigh and wondering how he’s been keeping such a straight face.

 

“Language.” He repeated, attempting to suppress a soft laugh and breaking the stone facade. “But I like what you’re saying. About being grey. Finding my own shade has just been particularly hard recently. Everything seems clouded by black and red.”

 

There’s something in his tone that makes you feel instantly empathetic, knowing he must be battling some intense demons. Demons that leave him scarred and bloody, physically and mentally. That much was always easily clear.

 

“Y/N?” You heard your name echoing off the high ceiling, Father Lantom having returned from his errands.

 

Your eyes went wide as you pushed yourself clumsily and in panic out of the confessional, stumbling and flustered. “I was– I was just talking, with, uh–“ words seem lost on you. Father Lantom was looking at you quizzically, his eyebrows raised and a bag of groceries in his arms. This was somehow worse than when he accidentally walked in on you kissing a boy from your ninth grade class, and that was hardly anything scandalous.

 

“Me. Sorry, father.” Matthew bowed out of the confessional, clutching his cane. “I just needed someone to talk to.” The raw emotion from his voice had disappeared, returning to a more formal, closed off tone.

 

Lantom stared at you for a long while, his lips pressed into a thin line. Slowly, he smiled, setting the groceries aside on one of the front pews. “Whatever you need, Matthew.” You noticed that his smile appeared more aimed at yourself, rather than at him. 

 

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Matthew says, “I’ll see you around. And please,” he turned to you a final time, “call me Matt.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> highkey hate this chapter<33 but enjoy my trash anyway<333

“Good morning,” you greeted every person who walked through the doors, handing out hymn books and the parish newsletter. It was a bright Sunday morning, meaning the church was getting close to full capacity.

 

You tried to act like you weren’t waiting for  _ him  _ to walk in; as if every smartly dressed man who passes you didn't make you do a double take. He never showed up to mass yesterday, and you self consciously wondered if it was something you'd done. Father Lantom never brought up your stepping into the confessional with him, of which you were immensely thankful. But he'd been keeping you particularly busy with chores and errands around church suddenly, leaving you less time to linger around.

 

A lot of the congregation were in black. Last night, the news was full of reports and interviews from the murder scene of a young boy from Hell's Kitchen. The circumstances were suspicious and most likely gang related, and you had to turn it off after watching a video of his family sobbing was played for at least the fifth time. The beautiful day outside seemed like some kind of joke in retrospect. You knew that Father Lantom would have his work cut out inspiring peace and hope into the crowd.

 

Lantom headed to the front of the church, about ready to start Sunday mass, when the door creaked opened again. The sound of a cane tapping the stone floor had you whipping around without a second thought, watching as a man in a dark suit slipped in. _Him_. Matthew--Matt. He siddled up right beside you, and you belatedly managed a pitifully quiet “good morning.” Avoiding staring at him, you held your hand out to give him the hymn book and when he didn’t immediately take it from you, you mentally cursed yourself out.

 

Gently, you reached for his hand, folding his fingers around the book. His skin was cold and sent a small shiver through your body--he took the hymn book from you gratefully.

 

“Any seats left?” He whispered, noticing that Lantom had started and the congregation was listening on intently. The nearest space was at the end of one of the back pews, and Matt held his arm out for you to link with your own.

 

You hesitantly interlocked your arm with his and guided him towards the seat, slipping in first and letting him sit beside you. He offered you a smile as a thanks, and heat rushed to your cheeks at how close he was to you now. His hands were folded in his lap, but his knees ghosted yours as you tried to resist the urge to fidget at his proximity.  _ Get a hold of yourself, _ you thought angrily,  _ you’re not a crazed teen.  _

 

_ “Now, a reading from Peter 1, chapter 1, verses 3 to 6. ‘Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade.” _

 

Resisting sneaking glances at Matt proved a task you repeatedly failed at, as you attempted to discreetly take him in beside you. His chin had a new cut, a graze was speckled across his left cheekbone, but the bruise above his eye had started to return to a more normal colour. You couldn’t possibly fathom what he did to get into such a state, and your brow creased in concern. He wore the violence so well it was hard to imagine his face without the injuries. His whole demeanor came off so easily charming and relaxed, the idea of him getting into fights on the regular seemed absurd. Father Lantom’s sermon was like distant static noise.

 

_ “This inheritance is kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time.” _

 

A woman a few pews ahead of them had started crying, her sniffs failing to be hidden in the church’s echo chamber. You played restlessly with the frayed sleeve of your sweater, bright red and suddenly seeming inappropriate compared to the sea of black sitting in church today. 

 

_ “In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials.” _

 

You flinched when you felt a hand touch your knee. Caught up in trying desperately to focus on Father Lantom, you hadn't realised you’d been bouncing your legs up and down; a nervous habit. Already knowing the source, you followed the hand to Matt, his face fixed straight ahead. His thumb rubbed small, soothing circles on the exposed skin of your leg, ignoring the way your skin goosebumped under his touch. 

 

Catching your breath and trying to focus your thoughts, you willed yourself to hone in on the words Lantom was speaking.  _ He’s just keeping you steady _ , you told yourself,  _ bouncing your leg was probably really annoying him _ . Just as you began to relax under his touch, his hand shifted an inch or two further up your leg. His gaze was still straight ahead. There was an elderly couple on Matt’s other side, but neither seemed to notice his advance.

 

The pads of his fingers are still drawing tiny, light patterns, inching gradually up your thigh. For the remainder of the mass, Matt’s hand didn't leave your skin. It proved so distracting, that when Lantom called the end of the service you hardly registered it at all, sitting still as people got up around you both. Suddenly your knee felt cold, as he removed his hand and the congregation members on your pew waited expectantly for you to both slide out. You missed the comfort and the warmth instantly with a pang of confusion.

 

Matt didn't say a word, his grip on your arm suddenly overwhelming all of your other senses, as if his initial touch had shifted something in you.

 

You made it out to the steps that lead to the double doors, moving aside to let others pass. Matt dropped your arm and you felt that sudden and strange absence again, his lack of touch leaving a feeling that something was  _ missing _ . The breezy NYC air made you hug your sweater closer, the dark clouds above you threatening to rain.

 

“Thank you,” was all Matt said as he broke the silence you’d lapsed into, flashing you a smile that lingered for longer than you felt it should have. You were aware of Father Lantom joining you outside as you watched Matt make his way onto the street and become swallowed by the busy city traffic of strangers. He stood beside you for a few moments, soaking in the afternoon sun before placing a hand on your shoulder.

 

“Please, Y/N,” Lantom sighed pensively, without needing to make eye contact, “be careful.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> send me hate on tumblr stacygwehn.tumblr.com mwah xo


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay sorry this is a lil short but wtf thank u so much for the response to this fic!! you're all too kind<33

If you hadn’t spent the last of your change earlier that day, you wouldn’t have had to walk home from college alone – in the dark. You were starting to think that goddamn overpriced iced coffee was absolutely  _ not _ worth it. 

 

Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t exactly the safest of neighbourhoods, even in the daytime, leaving your nerves are on edge. Every cat in a back alley or shout across the street made you hug your coat closer. Your flat wasn’t far away, just a little longer and you could curl up on your couch with some trash tv and a takeaway. 

 

As you turned the corner down a short alley you’d taken so many times before, you found yourself instantly regretting your decision. Someone was stood at the other end. The dark figure noticed you and turned in your direction, silent and hooded. Hurriedly, you backed up, and you could’ve sworn that the figure quickened their pace.

 

Whirling around to take a different route, another figure emerged from the darkness and blocked off your way out, their hood raised and their fists in their pocket. 

 

“I don’t have any money,” you pleaded, raising your hands defensively. “Please, I swear.” The last thing you wanted to do was to beg, to look pathetic and weak in front of these intimidating figures. But challenging them wasn't exactly what you’d always been taught not to do.

 

The two closed in on either side of you, one figure withdrawing a knife from their previously hidden hand. It shone in the moonlight, and you stumbled panickedly into the wall on one side of you in a desperate bid to escape. You scrambled for your set of keys, fitting each one between the fingers in your closed fist as the best weapon you could find right now.

 

Both strangers laughed, only an arms length away. “We don't wanna hurt ya,” one taunted, drawling his words, with the other twirling the knife between his fingers. “Just give us what you have.”

 

“I don't  _ have _ anything!” You shouted, hoping it was loud enough that someone might hear on the main road. The muggers didn’t like your raised tone, and the one with the knife lunged forward to take an abrupt stab at your side, piercing your abdomen and taking the breath from your lungs.

 

You clutched your side in numb shock, coming away with sticky palms. 

 

“Just give us the money!” Your assailant screamed hysterically, more unhinged than his partner.

 

A sob was caught in your throat as you slumped against the brick, tears clouding your vision.

 

“Go to hell.” You managed to spit through gritted teeth.

 

You watched as the knife is raised high again, anticipating the blow before it comes, wondering if it was really true that your life flashed before your eyes as you died.

 

But it never came. Another man had appeared, dressed head to toe in black, a mask covering his face above his mouth. He had the arm of the man with the knife in his grip, pulled back at an uncomfortable angle. The other guy tripped over himself to get away, looking fear stricken, but the newcomer had time for him yet.

 

His knee jutted up to cripple the guy he was holding onto, winding him so badly he stumbled over his feet and face planted the floor. Before the second mugger can flee, the guy in black had sent him tumbling back with a blow to the face, spitting blood. The shock of the turnaround made you almost forget the pain in your side, your eyes fixed on the stranger who saved you as he beat the two mercilessly until they stayed down.

 

The man was breathing hard when he finally stilled, fists clenched as his head tilted down at the two limp bodies. droplets of blood dripped from his knuckles, both his own and theirs. When he turned to you, you flinched. You weren’t sure he wouldn’t hurt you too, no matter how much it looked like he had just saved your life.

 

Silence hung heavy. Not being able to see his eyes or facial expression only heightened your apprehension towards him, and you hugged the brick wall as close as you could. Your fingers were sticky with your own blood. if only you could have gotten out your phone – the masked man’s attention on you rendered you too scared to do so.

 

“Let me help you.” He spoke finally, taking a single, slow step forward. His voice was gruff, like he was stuck in a state of perpetually having a sore throat. _Or,_ trying to mask his true voice. What kind of vigilante would he be if he didn't try to hide his true identity?

 

“You've done enough,” you muttered, eyeing the two bodies. 

 

“You're welcome.” He breathed an airy laugh, the corners of his mouth tilting up an inch in a sarcastic way. 

 

Warily, the man took a few more steps closer until you let him tuck himself into you to act as a human crutch. _Letting_ was perhaps not the right word; the energy to resist his advance had been drained out of you.  The pair of you had dragged your feet a few blocks until you realised that you weren’t heading in the opposite direction of the hospital.

 

“Where are we going?” You murmured, eyelids growing heavier as the hand you were using to clutch your wound fell limp against your side.

 

“My place. You can get patched up there, I know someone who can help.”

 

“An ancient Druid who can revive me from the dead?”

 

He scoffed lightly, “close enough. She's a nurse.”


End file.
